He is Heavy, and he is my brother

It's occurred to me that, given the lag time between experiencing this stuff and writing about it, I should start dating these entries with the times when they occurred. I'll try. This one covers May 23rd and 24th...

Wild or Mild?
The trail climbs down from the San Jacinto range into the desert as if it regretted having made the decision to do so. Switchbacks upon switchbacks upon switchbacks. My map told me that it takes 16 miles of trail to cover a distance of 4 miles as the crow flies, and I believe it. The trail seems to take on a personality of it's own, and said personality is that of a spoiled four-year old being asked to leave the carnival and go to the dentist. It meanders; it dallies; it sulks; it searches out every last possible wrinkle in the landscape as it descends. Granted, it descends many thousands of feet, from a crisp alpine environment to a sere, sandy true desert (replete with Interstate and casino). But you kind of wish the trail would just rip the band-aid off and be done with it.
And during the many hours it took me to make my way down, my mind was filled with the question of how to handle the trail closure ahead. (The trail route runs through a huge area closed in the aftermath of the Lake Fire in 2013.) To a one, the other hikers around me said they were going to hitch around it. It seemed like hiking to Ziggy and the Bear, a pair of trail angels, was the plan. Shuttles were available there.
But you know, it just didn't sit quite right with me. This is not a question of judgement or purity, but more just where I am as a hiker. When Heavy and I hiked the Continental Divide Trail, there was a lot of road walking and detouring. We accepted it and did it. There wasn't really any other option for us, and we learned to make the best of it. Jeep trails, having two tracks, allow for two people to walk abreast of each other, talking about noble issues like beer and whether Tokyo Drift was really part of the Fast and Furious movie franchise. In this way, we walked over mesas, along snowmobile trails, across ranges and states.
And I knew that if Heavy was with me, I'd hike the detour. It wouldn't even ha e been a question. Without him, I felt pretty conflicted. I did not relish the prospect of a long walk along a busy highway, which thw detour entailed. The last 25 miles of the detour was along forest service roads through waterless high desert and had little info available. Heavy is very physically brave and wouldn't have been fazed; I am what is technically known as a "chickenshit" and therefore the voice of caution. We had a slang term for this dichotomy: Wild 'n' Mild. Sometimes I acted the Wild fool (no relation to the damn book), especially when we were yucking it up in some mountain town; sometimes Heavy would. We kept each other in check. Just another reason we make such a good hiking team.
As the desert floor got closer (slowly) and the forbidden closed San Gorgonio range loomed up its other side, the Heavy sitting on my right shoulder convinced the.lily-livered coward on my left to shut up. I decided to hike the detour.
I called Lily a let her know I'd meet her in Pioneertown, the halfway point of the route, the next night. The valley floor was a sandy, windy mess; the interstate was ugly, as they usually are; Ziggy and the Bear were very sweet, and supplied me with some needed extra calories; and as the sun set, I headed up along the PCT towards the detour. I slept that night just above a wind farm, the whistling turbines setting an odd soundtrack to my dreams.

All roads lead to Pioneertown
I got up and out with first light the next day. Anxiety makes a great morning stimulant, I find. I had some eight miles of PCT left before turning off for the detour, and they were enjoyable -- sun rising on grassy slopes, where cute cows ate cute plants. I crossed beautiful Whitewater Creek, and then turned off the PCT at Mission Creek.
The first leg of the detour tool me on manicured trail through a huge non-governmental desert preserve run by the Wildlands Conservancy. Very impressive! I passed a stone lodge with great maps,  then the trail turned to road. Some odd ruined stone bungalows on the left with what looked like the ruins of a swimming pool; no time to explore, I gotta make it to Pioneertown. (Sorry there are no photos of this, my phone was chronically low on battery.)

The dirt road then hit Highway 62, the 29 Palms Highway. This is a busy, busy highway. Lots of tractor trailers, and lots of giant pickup trucks piloted by men that looked like they would have liked TruckNutz, but the wife wouldn't let it happen. One did have a sticker declaring the vehicle a "Pantie-Dropper," which is pure class. My route description had me walking along an old roadbed to the side the highway for a while, but that was a sandy weedy wreck of a route. There was a dirt access road for awhile, but it petered out. After a while, I just shrugged and walked the road. For what is a road but a very well-marked trail? And this particular trail had a Circle K, which had hot dogs and sodas. And, not saying I would ever indulge, but they also carried a certain beer-and-tomato-juice canned beverage called a "Chelada," which, when poured into a Nalgene, looks just like Gatorade. Just for my readers' general education, should such a fact ever come in handy for you. 

And on I walked. About nine miles out from Pioneertown, Lily and her (our) friend Jasmine found me and pulled over. Never been happier to see a Subaru!!! They gave me a Pepsi and took some stuff out of my pack to speed me up, then drove ahead. 

Thank you Jasmine for capturing true joy in a pic!

And off again. My feet were starting to feel the miles, but after I turned off the 62 onto Pioneertown Road, the country changed from scrubby flats to a high desert moonscape, knobs of red rock lining every ridgetop. The people changed too -- everyone waved, per traditional rural manners. And then, as the sun was starting toward the horizon, I came to Pioneertown. 

There's a lot to be said about Pioneertown, but for now suffice it to say that it is a delightfully weird village set high up in the middle of the desert mountains. Lily and I have been here before, and we absolutely love it. There is a movie-set western Main Street where they re-enact gunfights on a weekly basis; there are chickens you can feed from a vending machine, 25c per handful of feed. And there is Pappy and Harriet's, a bar/grill/music venue. I got there before Lily and Jasmine, and reclined into a sofa and a beer. It was my first 30-mile day on the trail so far, and the sensation of relaxing was that pure heaven that is brought on by simple luxury following significant exhaustion.

Lily and Jasmine showed up, we ate like kings, retired to the campground, and slept.

Stretches of joy

The road out of Pioneertown...

...did not end well for all motorists.

The next day's hiking was a very pleasant surprise. First, there was a lot of water set out along the route by residents who wanted to help hikers along. Thank you residents of Rimrock! The road turned out to be gorgeous, winding up into Burns Canyon and topping out at a crazy-looking mine surrounded by slagheaps of fine red mud, followed by a huge serene desert meadow. This road gave the PCT a run for its money, in terms of beauty. And then, finally, I rounded a corner and saw that beautiful PCT trail blaze, all snowy peaks and pine tree. I was home again! I hiked on to a road crossing, where I met Lily and Jasmine walking up the trail toward me. We went to camp, ate steak and potatoes, and again I felt I must be the luckiest man on trail this year.

High desert panorama. C'mon, click on it, it's worth it.

HUGE THANKS to Lily and Jasmine for supporting me through this section! Lily keep believing in me, and to my own shock, she keeps being correct. And of course to Heavy, for teaching me the ying and yang of Wild n Mild.